


the Klaus fic I'll never finish

by neverweremine



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22433014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverweremine/pseuds/neverweremine
Summary: Shadows cast the room in darkness, but moonlight peeking in from the curtained window highlighted holes in the wall where winter chill seeped through and cobwebs sprung from the corners. Jesper sat up and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Think. Think. How did he end up in this dump?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	the Klaus fic I'll never finish

Dad never did have a great sense of interior decoration. Oh, his office was tasteful in a minimalist, austere sort of way — not a paper out of place or a book misplaced on the shelves — but nothing ever popped; the only exception being the bright peacock quill he'd gifted him years ago as a birthday present. The man never used it, of course, but it still sat at the corner of his desk; its plumage dull and drooping from disuse.

" — and as my son, it is your duty to — " Dad continued as he paced under the portraits of their forefathers. He liked to do that — lecture Jesper with their ancestors in the background as if the blatant reminder of their roots would compel him to act in a manner more 'befitting their station'. The symbolism had lost its luster after the third time.

Rather than suffer in complete boredom, Jesper turned to the desk and muttered an incantation under his breath. With a twirl of his pointer, the peacock quill rose into the air, rising higher and higher until it danced among the floating motes highlighted by the morning sun. Burghard, standing at attention nearby , said nothing. He never did. He slid the quill under Burghard's nose, tickled it against his ear, and pressed it against his eyes. The man didn't even twitch.

" — and it is imperative — " Dad's heels did the little click that signified the lecture coming to an end. Jesper dropped his finger, and the quill, back into its cup. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah, yeah. Look, Dad, I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but shouldn't you send someone else? Anyone else? Courier work is a little below me, don't you think?"

"No," his father growled. "No more letting you off the hook. If you're to ever inherit, you need to learn responsibility. Now, let's check if you were paying attention." His father abandoned his post under the portraits and circled the map overlaid table. "Repeat what I said."

"Island up north." He tapped at said island, which had only one glowing path leading to it as opposed to the many shifting and glowing lines that connected the other towns and cities. Even as he stood there, several lines shifted and turned colors; blue to green to yellow to red, signifying something beyond Jesper's purview. "Runecarver that's behind on his commissions. You want me to go there, knock on his door — "

"No, I said the exact opposite. I said, 'Do not step on the island under any circumstances' — "

"It's a figure of speech!" Jesper countered. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms and hoped that his exaggerated motions would draw away from his bluff. So he hadn't been listening — it wasn't like his dad ever made him easy to listen to, between the clipped tones and slow meander through their family history. "So you want me to message him from off-island — not that there'd be much difference if I messaged him from here or there — "

"Smeerensburg is well-known for its long-range magical displacement. The closer you get, the higher chance you'll be able to bypass the displacement and come in contact. You should've learned this with your geographical history tutor but," his father heaved a small sigh and rotated his hand, "continue."

"Right. If I receive a response, I ask what's been holding him. Pressure him to finish his commissions. Blah, blah, blah. If I don't receive a response, I get to come home. Did I get it right?"

"Good enough," his father said. He came close until they were toe to toe, his no-nonsense polished black shoes at odds with the slippers Jesper had been too lazy to change out of. "Before I let you go, repeat after me: _I will not step foot on Smeerensburg_."

"I will not step foot on Smeerensburg," he repeated. His throat tightened as his father's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed.

"Good. After this, I'll send you to the south. You need to familiarize yourself with the routes and learn how to negotiate with our partners." The hand slid off and he groaned. His father raised his hand before he could whine at the unfairness of it. "No complaints. I want to hear your report by next week. Off you go."

Jesper harrumphed and stomped his way to the door. He waited for echoing footsteps, but when none came, he turned. Burghard stood stock still right where he'd left him. "Burghard, aren't you coming?"

"He'll be staying here. Responsibility means doing things yourself and not pushing tasks onto others. Ergo, you're making this journey alone. That means no coachmen, no chefs, and no butlers."

"Alone? Y- you can't be serious? I've — I can't — _Alone_?"

His father waved a hand, and the doors opened behind him. A second wave and the carpet underneath Jesper's feet slid him through the threshold and into the hall. With a third wave, the doors began closing as his father reclaimed his desk; Burghard's face as stoic as ever as he served him tea. And then the doors shut.

.

It took eons to get to the northern end of the country. He had insisted on using the teleportation room to at least teleport as far north as he could go, but the guards had forbidden him, citing that his father wanted him to learn the 'old-fashioned way'. The 'old-fashioned way' apparently meant long days of solitary riding with no company save for an unnamed mule and the stench of the outdoors. How did people live out here; with the rain and the mud and the luggage you have to levitate by hand? His lack of servants forced him to reduce his usual baggage by three-quarters, but at least those bags were full of coats interwoven with heating charms. By the time he reached the northern tip, even his most long-lasting and durable winter coats were having trouble shielding him from winter's bite. In short, he was freezing.

And impatient.

"I told you," Jesper said through gritted teeth, "I'm not lost."

"Are you sure?" The ferryman lifted his cap enough to reveal a receding hairline before lowering it again, "Because if you're not with the Order then, frankly, I don't understand why you would want to travel to Smeerensburg — and judging from your clothes, you're not from the Order."

"I don't need to go to Smeerensburg, I have to make a call."

The ferryman nodded — the slow, cautious nod one did when dealing someone on the more quirky side of humanity — and said, "And you need my boat because…?"

"Well, Smeerensburg has long-range magical interference, right? I haven't received a response from here, so if I get closer — " Jesper's lips curled as the ferryman continued to stare at him with uncaring eyes, "Does it matter? I'm paying the fare, aren't I? Get me as close to the island as you can."

"Whatever you say, oh considerate customer." Lower, he muttered. "I'm due back, anyway."

.

Jesper caressed the luxurious fur of his thick coat, murmuring incantations in time with the sweep of his fingers. Even the most expensive enchanted items needed a rekindling of magic now and again, and while he loved this coat, it was also the oldest one he had. As the coat warmed up to suitable temperatures once again, he waited ... and waited ... and waited for someone — anyone — to respond.

"Hello, Runecarver? Are you there?" Jesper sighed as no response came. At this point, he was considering traveling to the man's door and knocking. At least then he'd know if the Runecarver was still alive.

"Maybe you're doing the spell wrong?" The ferryman remarked. They were at a stand-still on the bow, the waters silent save for the quiet splashing against the hull. Jesper peered into the thick fog but only saw water and more fog. He could go back and tell his dad the Runecarver didn't respond; job done — and really, that's what he ought to do — but he hadn't journeyed weeks through mud and rain and the filthy peasant roads; hadn't been bad-mouthed by a briny, unwashed, and disgusting underworked sailor only to be ignored.

Jesper had never taken well to being ignored.

"I want to get closer."

"I don't think you do," the sailor said in his lackadaisical way, but a familiar warning tone underlaid his words.

Jesper's lips thinned. "Closer."

He waited for an argument or an obstinate refusal, but none came. The boat sailed once again, and Jesper squinted as a shadow formed in the distance. They must be close to the island. He redid the spell, waiting for the slight pop of air that would signify a proper connection, but only the slap of water through the paddlewheel met his ears. "Closer," he urged.

The shadow became a looming presence that hung, suspended. The boat stopped. He recast it. Nothing happened. It couldn't have been his fault — the message spell had been the first spell he'd ever mastered; he used it daily to call for servants without leaving his chair. Was it because he'd never met the Runecarver? True, sending messages to people unfamiliar to the caster was harder, but he had the man's Title. No, it must be the displacement. He peered into the fog.

"Closer," he commanded.

The boat chugged along at a slow speed. They passed the looming thing — a whale skeleton dangling from a house; how charming. What will these plebs think of next? — and then the boat came to a dead stop, inches shy of entering the island's bay.

"I can't get any closer," the ferryman stated. Then, in a more hesitant voice that Jesper would've never guessed him of possessing, he asked, "You do know about this island, right? The curse that surrounds it?"

"What curse?"

An array of emotions flickered in the man's eyes as they grew steadily wider; as the man's mouth fell open. First came surprise, then shock, and then the man's pupils shrunk to tiny pinpricks. Fearful. "We're leaving," he stated, clutching the ship's wheel as if it were the only thing between him and an impending storm — and as if summoned by his fear, the wind began blasting across the ship's deck tenfold.

Jesper stumbled as the ship rocked and swerved. The wind blew, wrenching down his hood and spraying saltwater into his mouth. The boat groaned and he struggled to grip the wet-slick railing as everything swayed; empty bottles of alcohol hidden underneath the boiler tumbled past his feet and then back again as the boat rocked from side to side; clinking as they bumped into each other. Another spray of saltwater numbed Jesper's face, the freezing chill leaving him squinting as the ferryman spun the helm.

But the boat was turning too fast and the gust blew too strong. Jesper had only a moment to register his back hitting the ship's railing before he was tipping over, the breeze whistling in his ear as he fell, fell, fell, and —

Splash.

Freezing. Whatever magic imbued and revived in his jacket could not battle the ocean's fathomless frigid waters. It couldn't make him lightweight either — the thick winter coat dragging him down, down, down; the fabric constricting him so he could do nothing more than waddle his arms.

No. No, he couldn't drown. Not like this. Not in a godforsaken bay in the middle of an island no one wanted to visit. Casting his fear aside, Jesper pressed his hands to his chest and the smooth exterior of his coat. He imagined the jacket filling with air like those lifebuoys attached to ship sides, and with a concentration to silent spell-casting he had never shown during tutelage, Jesper let the magic escape his fingertips.

.

.

.

.

Nothing happened.

.

.

.

.

He was going to die.

.

.

.

.

Air, he needed air. He needed to spell cast but he couldn't without air. _Should've paid attention. Should've worked harder. Should've_ —

Then... a miracle. The jacket puffed up. Jesper's body sagged in relief as his body rose, his hair drifting past his neck instead of over.

He gulped for air the moment his head broke through the surface. His teeth chattered through his gasps, his body wracking with chills, and the tips of his ears on fire. He needed to get out — needed to get dry — needed _land_.

"Don't! Don't go on — "

The frantic shouts fell on deaf ears as Jesper used his magic to push himself past the burn and the stiffness and onto dry land. The moment he dragged himself onto the shore — still struggling for air and frozen to the bone — he felt something hook itself inside and pull; stripping whatever warmth he had left and forcing him to lie down, knees drawn to the chest in a desperate bid to conserve body heat. A strange static washed over him then; a seal over his person. The last thing he heard before darkness came was a simple click, like a lock clicking into place before someone threw away the key, leaving him cold and alone.

.

.

.

.

.

When Jesper awoke, it was to a room he'd never seen or likely ever want to visit again. The blanket covering him itched and if it weren't for the miserable shiver wracking his body, he'd have it burned for its hideousness. The bed he laid on felt as if someone stuffed it with pebbles. Shadows cast the room in darkness, but moonlight peeking in from the curtained window highlighted holes in the wall where winter chill seeped through and cobwebs sprung from the corners. Jesper sat up and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Think. Think. How did he end up in this dump?

Dad lecturing him on duty and management again. The Runecarver. A long and miserable journey to the north. The boat ride to the island.

_I will not step foot on Smeerensburg._

Welp, he screwed that one up. He sat there, contemplating his instructions and his potential punishments. Don't step on the island, Dad had said, but it had been an emergency; he almost drowned! He was sure once he explained, they could laugh past his mistakes and he could head home without retribution. Or extra assignments. All he had to do was message him and explain.

He hesitated as he muttered the incantation and pressed the surrounding air, searching for his father's familiar presence among the hundreds of presences he'd met through his lifetime. It should've been easy to find his dad among them, but the distinct aura of people he knew blurred and faded into an incomprehensible blob. He tried to press his senses closer but it was as if his magic had been contained in a glass bubble. He probed his magic as far against the bubble as he could, but even as he cast it, he knew —

"Dad? Dad, are you there?"

— it failed.

He tried again.

Failed.

A third time.

Nothing.

"Okay, that doesn't mean anything," Jesper babbled aloud. "It's a long-distance and wasn't there — " his dad's words resurfaced, "There's long-distance magical displacement. Once I leave the island, everything should be fine."

Before he could dwell too much on the matter, the door swung open and in stepped an older lady with white hair, the darkest void eyes he ever saw, and the black uniform of a senior Order member.

"You're up. Good. Here's some water." She placed a brown clay pitcher on his bedside table and stared him down. Someone had removed his coat and pants, leaving him only in his undergarments. He raised his blankets to his chin — he was a modest man, thank you very much — but her eyes screamed unimpressed, which was uncalled for considering his undergarments no doubt far outbid anything in this room.

"I have duties to attend to, but if you need anything call for Sister Alva." She ventured back to the doorway; one wizened and liver-spotted hand holding the door jamb. She turned to him, the flickering hallway light casting shadows upon her wrinkled face. "Welcome to Smeerensburg," she rasped, "I hope you like it here. You'll be staying for a long time."

And with that, she walked away.

"Um, excuse me? That's — You know that's very ominous to say to someone recovering — or anyone, regardless of circumstance? Are you — Where are my things? Who are — "

But her footsteps faded and Jesper hadn't the strength to pursue.

.

When he awoke a second time, a different lady was placing a steaming bowl of something delicious smelling on the bedside table. At first he thought it was fish stew but sitting up, he realized there was no fish in the bowl. It was her. She reeked of fish. Poor peasants, they couldn't even afford simple perfume to mask their fish stink.

"You're not the old lady," he greeted.

"That 'old lady' is Mother Agnetha and no. No, I'm not," she replied.

"Are you a healer?"

She scoffed. "This island hasn't had a healer in a decade. Even the most philanthropic caretakers aren't willing to trap themselves here."

He hummed. Not surprising. He levitated the bowl onto his lap and grabbed the spoon. On one hand, the slop looked as appetizing as regurgitated bird food, but on the other, his stomach had been grumbling since last night. Blowing on the spoonful he'd scooped, Jesper sent a prayer heavenward — better safe than sorry. He sipped at the spoon and while it wasn't 'vomit on the sheets and ring the bell' god awful, it was… bland. Very, very bland. He took a bigger sip. Yes, bland.

"You know," the yet unnamed lady said, "you're taking the curse well."

Jesper stared at her, little bits of soup dribbling down his spoon. "What curse?"

Her face pinched into an incredulous expression. "What do you mean, 'what curse'? The —"

A knock drowned out the rest of her sentence. The ferryman stood at the threshold, hips resting against the door frame. "So, you're up. Did you tell him the news yet, Sister Alva?"

"I told you not to call me that."

" _Sister_ Alva? Wait, you're part of the Order? You don't look like an Order member. You look like the exact opposite of someone in the Order. People in the Order are…" He waved his spoon at her; at her stained skirt and messy hair and her general fish stinkery, "Well, _orderly_."

"Gee, thanks."

"Not that you look like a disaster. I'm not saying that, but — " He gave a desperate glance to the ferryman and gestured at him. "You, boatman — "

"Mogens.".

"Right, Mogens, you said there was news?"

A tense silence descended upon the room with the density of a thick fog. Alva, whose face was once harsh spitfire and bitter displeasure, softened into pity. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

Jesper straightened as Alva and Mogens shared a glance. It was Mogens that caught his attention the most. His first impression of Mogens was of an unwashed sailor who had never seen a bath in his life, but that was nothing compared to today. His shadowed chin had sprouted a patchy, uneven beard; his eyes carried heavy bruises; the slight sarcastic uptick to his lips had vanished, leaving only a man on the wrong side of the phrase 'sobered up.'

"I'll only say this once," the sailor stated. "I'm sorry. I should've warned you sooner."

And then, with a tip of his cap, Mogens pushed himself from the door frame and left.

"Coward," Alva muttered.

"What's he talking about? What's going on?"

She heaved a sigh and levitated the bowl and spoon onto the table. She settled at the foot of the bed and sat there, silent; staring at the blankets as if the answers of the universe were weaved into the itchy fabric. When she lifted her eyes, they were as vacant and empty as Mogens'.

"A long time ago," she started, "two clans inhabited this island: the Ellingboes and the Krums. They began fighting long before history could remember and for reasons history forgot, and kept fighting even though neither could strike a decisive blow against the other."

"Well, one day," she continued, "a powerful mage visited the island. The constant fighting sickened them and they entreated the clans to stop warring with each other but the clans didn't listen. They kept fighting and fighting and the mage kept pleading with them to stop...After some time, the mage became disgusted by the clans' unnatural love of violence and placed a curse on the island."

"' _You shall not step foot outside this island until you have brokered a peace between each other,'_ they said, ' _Only when true peace has been established shall you be free once more.'_ But in cursing them, the mage had also cursed whoever landed upon the island. No one knows if that was their intention or if it was a byproduct, but..."

She gave him a pointed look. "You landed on the island, Newcomer. Your foot touched the soil."

A sinking feeling erupted into his chest and it took all of his willpower not to magic his shirt into puffiness — into floating him far, far above the doubt clutching his heart. A joke. That's what this was. "This is a joke, isn't it? A peasant joke the locals play on tourists. Well, I may not seem the sharpest but I'll have you know I'm well-tutored. I was also sent here, so... " He clutched at the blankets, digging his thumb into the holes and worn threads.

"Well then, I'm sorry to say but whoever sent you here wanted to get rid of you."

"My dad sent me here."

The pity was back on her face. His throat clenched. She sighed, shook her head, and stood from the bed — and the dismissiveness of it weighed on his chest with the intense familiarity of rain on the window. "I'm sorry," she said. "I really am, but the faster you accept reality, the easier it'll get."

And then she left.

The moment her footsteps faded, he tried re-messaging his dad. It failed. He failed. But it meant nothing because there was magical displacement, and his dad warned him of that, and as soon as he was out of the island's weird magic-frizzling borders he could call him and tell him of the bad trick the locals were trying to play on him — no doubt seeking to swindle him from his purse by convincing him to buy a phony 'anti-curse' hat or something more ridiculous and —

— And his dad would've told him if the island was cursed, right? He would've mentioned it — said something like —

_Repeat after me: I will not step foot on Smeerensburg._

Jesper dragged the blankets over his head until his eyes could see nothing but darkness. He lay there, curled under the coarse woolen sheets for most of the day; the bowl of soup and his hunger, forgotten.

.

Recovery came slower than expected without healers. It took an overnight stay for the chill to leave his bones and another to regain mobility. In that time, he had stew slammed onto his bedside table two times and three lectures on 'mindfulness' which was undue. He was a guest! He had never interacted with Order members before — too stuffy; never knew how to have fun — but weren't one of their basic principles kindness unto others? To care for those in need? Well, he was in dire need.

His fingers were becoming red from the snapping.

"What?" Alva shouted as she slammed the door open, her face an odd shade of puce and her messy hair even more mangled as it hung over her eyes. "What do you want?"

Jesper lowered his fingers and let the magic ringing cease. He gestured to the bowl in his lap. "This is cold and disgusting. I'd like a look at the dinner menu, please."

She growled and pulled him by the collar. Lukewarm stew fell onto the blankets and seeped into his lap, the bowl falling to the floor with a clatter. "That's it. You're out of here. I don't care where you go but you're not staying here."

"That is no way to handle someone, and certainly not someone of my station. I demand you take your hands off me at once!"

She let go and waved her hand. The bed became clean and made. She snapped her finger and the bowl warped to the bedside table. She didn't, he noticed, clean his pants or the stew dripping onto his shoe. "Come on, you're healed. Get your bags."

Jesper scowled as he magicked his clothes clean and his bags to follow. "Fine, I've had enough of this place." He stretched his arms and shook the stiffness from his legs. "Once I return home — "

She spun and her eyes flashed; white-hot lightning in brown orbs, "What don't you get?" She shouted. "You're not going home. You're stuck here and have been for days. Now, I don't know where you'll stay from now on, but it's not here."

She was close. Close enough, he could see the way her shoulders shook and the individual strands of hair dangling in front of her furious face. He leaned back. "I'm sorry, you must be mistaken. There's a ferry. A ferry implies a way in and out. Ergo, I know you've been lying to me. I'll admit, you got me the first day but you need to work on a more convincing lie if you — "

His mouth clamped shut as she seized him, dragging him into the narrow hallway, past the stairs, past a room filled to the brim with fish and outside; the unforgiving bite of winter only rivaled by the nails digging past his sleeve and into his skin.

"Excuse me? You can let go now. I can walk, you know!"

But she kept marching him past iron-wrought gates and into the town proper. Drab country folk dressed in uninspired clothes bore witness to his kidnapping but did nothing to help. The children pointed at him, tugging on their relative's sleeves, saying, "Look, a newcomer! A newcomer!" One child even had the gall to point and laugh.

He hadn't known what to expect of Smeerensburg when his dad first mentioned it — remote whaling town up north with no attractions to speak of; he hadn't imagined much — but whatever he'd conjured shone bright in comparison. The buildings were tall and looming and gray, there wasn't one pleasant face to be found among the crowd — they had to maneuver around _harpoons_ that littered the streets like spring flowers bursting from the snow. If Jesper weren't so paranoid the town was trying to rob him, he'd have thrown them money just to have some color inserted into the scenery.

Minutes later, Alva slowed near a familiar figure seated on a front porch, his pose akin to when they first met, right down to the cap over his eyes. "Show him," she commanded as she pushed him forward. "He needs to learn."

Mogens lifted the cap, revealing drowsy eyes. He blinked slowly. "Ripping off the bandage there mighty quick, don't you think, Sister Alva?"

"He needs to learn," she repeated.

Mogens sighed and rocked to his feet, the front legs of his chair slamming against the porch. "Yeah, yeah. Guess we gotta leave Wonderland sometime, huh?"

"What's going on?" Jesper asked. "When are you people going to start making sense?"

Mogens stretched and yawned, showcasing crooked teeth and a large snaggletooth. He scratched his back and loped off the porch. "Come along, Newcomer. I'm taking you for a ferry ride."

"Finally." Now he could get off this island. Now he could call his dad. Jesper dug into his pockets and produced the fare fee, but the ferryman shook his head.

"Keep the money. You'll need it."

.

"Is there any reason this is taking so long?" Jesper asked, his foot tapping an uneven beat on the dirty deck.

"Almost ready," Mogens replied, retying the knot he'd tied four times already.

"You've said that five times."

"Heh. Never can be too sure." The sailor straightened — though that was relative considering his spine had the curvature of a French Horn. "Hey, you're handy with magic, right? I mean, you levitated your bags all the way here."

He gestured to the bags still half-hovering off the deck. No telling what filthy things had touched this boat beforehand. Jesper's tapping slowed. "I suppose so. What," he scrunched his nose, "do you need my help or something?"

"You can say that, but it's more me helping you help yourself. How 'bout you do a bit of protective magic on yourself in case you choose to take a last-minute swim again?"

"Choose? _Choose_!? It was your bad steering that had me half-drowned in the first place!"

"Eh," Mogens shrugged, "you say to-MAY-to, I say to-MAH-to."

Jesper grumbled as he produced a shield for him and his bags. Overlay that with a few floating charms and he didn't have to fear the water any longer.

"All set?" Mogens asked.

"Yes, let's get out of here. I've been stuck on this island for too long."

Mogens smiled, but it was humorless; there and gone. The boat started, the paddlewheel circling the water but in a pace so slow it drove Jesper to his wit's end.

"Can't you speed up?"

"I could," Mogens replied, but did nothing more. They came upon the whale skeleton once more and it was as they passed that something terrible happened. The boat sailed on and Mogens with it but Jesper —

Jesper was being pushed off by an invisible force. He tried hanging onto the railing but it was like clutching a cliff's edge while an immovable wall slammed onto his fingers, forcing him to let go one by one until the unnatural face swept him away, pushing him to the end of the boat and, inevitably, off of it. He didn't land with a splash but his breath still left his chest, hands prepared to weave and cast once his lungs filled with water, but the water never came.

When he opened his eyes, the boat was motionless in front of him. He walked atop the water, ready to use his magic to scale the boat's side, but a dome woven from shimmering golden light stopped him in his tracks. Mogens, a mocking presence beyond the dome's reach, told him, "This is it. This is the curse."

"This is nothing," Jesper said. He pushed against the dome but when nothing happened, he started casting spells. First a simple de-spell, then a more advanced reversal spell. When that didn't work, he closed his eyes and envisioned himself on the boat. He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. He threw a concussive blast to the dome but all it did was shatter his shielding. Lucky, his floatation charms were still in place.

"You can't break it." Mogens called from atop the deck, "Thousands of people have tried and failed."

Jesper glared, "Well, seeing as how you're perched high and mighty past the dome's walls, I'm gonna say you're lying."

The man dared to shrug. "I'm a special case, but give it a few days and I'll be back here with the rest of you, whether or not I want to."

"Yeah, not falling for it." He called.

The next few hours were the most tiresome of his life. He wracked his brain for every bit of arcane knowledge he'd been taught, every trick he'd learned from gala performers. He tried blasting the dome, displacing the dome, he re-boarded the ship and pressed his knees to the grimy floor to place runes around the dome — he even forced Mogens to run the ship on full speed while wielding his strongest shield spell. It didn't work. Nothing was working. Why was nothing working?

At last, when the sun was low in the sky, he pivoted on his heel and glared at Mogens. "Why are you so different? Why can you leave and not — not — " The sailor raised a finger and brought out a flask. He took a long swig of it before gesturing for Jesper to continue — and it was only then that he realized it wasn't drowsiness pulling down the man's shoulders and clouding the man's eyes, but resignation.

"We should head back. My engine's almost running on empty."

Jesper opened his mouth, ready to argue, to fight, to break this stupid dome and escape this winter hellhole, but it was getting darker and colder and even the fire in his heart was wavering. His teeth clicked close, and he nodded.

When his foot touched the ground again, on an island where he had no home and no one knew his name, Jesper couldn't help but feel unequivocally, irrevocably

.

.

.

alone.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Neverweremine1)


End file.
